Much Ado About Sheep
by Kandragon
Summary: Latter Fourth Age, AU. In a small Ithilien settlement, two strangers have come to town, looking to uncover the answer to a simple mystery: what, exactly, is killing the sheep?
1. The Rich Hermit and the Hooded Man

A/N: The elvish is purposefully butchered. Please forgive Paladin's…unusual lack of knowledge, he just isn't familiar with Middle Earth history... Takes places in an alternative history or extended Fourth Age (1500 vs only a few hundred) with its societal, cultural, and technological consequences. However, it tries to remain mostly canon compliant beyond that.

Chapter 1: _The Rich Hermit and the Hooded Man_

000

Villages, towns, and even cities all had one thing in common: sheep.

Ithil Eden was no exception to this dreadful rule, or perhaps it was just chance that he had found work at the very inn where all the shepherds chose to drink. When Paladin Longfoot had left home last autumn, he thought that moving to the great city of Ithil Eden would bring with it a life of excitement, of adventure. Like in the old stories: where the hero, Samwise the Great, brought down the Dark Lord upon his Dark Throne; or where Peregrin Took rallied the forces of Gondor; or when Merry slayed the Witch King and his dragon, Smaug. Cobby's tales had made Ithil Eden sound like Rivendell, the Golden Hall, or the Lonely Mountain—places where grand adventures were bound to take place. Cobby had called its walls 'pristine'. He claimed that the streets were paved with silver stones and that the Fountain of the Moon sparkled with a mystical, faery light. But when Paladin had arrived eight months ago, Ithil Eden wasn't what he had expected. Its pearl-white walls were darkened by filth and soot. The cobblestone streets were silver only when it rained. The city's legendary Fountain was little more than a water-stained pool built by the hands of men, not the Elves who had once dwelled in the forests of Ithilien.

Ithil Eden's splendor was about as real as his luck. If he had any, he would certainly not be here, working in this tiny, tidy tavern that could barely be called an inn. The Red Peony only had one spare room, the others belonged to Master Cerion and his kin, none of whom were actually _here_ at the moment. The Mistress was out, buying some goods; their two boys were at school at this time of day, while Master Cerion was speaking with the blacksmith about new hinges for the door and new shoes for the old draft horse. He'd given Paladin a frown, a nod, and a sigh before leaving. The man saw this little place as his precious gem, despite its drafty boards, the worn tables, and the awful, tedious talk about sheep, cattle, and goats.

Paladin did not understand, but comprehending the ways of shepherds or men had never been his forte. Only two of the Big Folk were in the Red Peony at the moment, sitting across from each other at a small table in the back of the inn. The worst table, in fact. While the others were worn, this table was scratched and nicked and scratched inside its nicks. It wobbled each time either man moved. Yet, like the others, it had a vase with a single red peony cut from the flower bushes in front of the tavern. Those flowers were a little piece of beauty that made this old, rundown inn feel a little more like home.

 _Oh goodness_ , he thought, _that's my sister speaking._

Paladin only recognized one of the two men; Goodman Dorr dressed in a once-fine lavender coat and white, silk shirt. At his neck he wore one of those new, fluffy cravats that were popular with men with too much money but no actual class. Dorr stared at his empty, wooden mug, his shoulders slouched and his rotund face haggard and pale.

 _That's not a sight for sore eyes. Dorr deserves whatever misfortune's fallen upon his gray head,_ Paladin thought as he studied the odd pair. Dorr's companion caught his eyes, and gestured at Paladin with his pipe, pointing at the keg of ale behind the bar. Paladin poured two square mugs of ale, picking up on their conversation as he weaved through the tables on his way to the two men.

"Another's gone, these wolves are the worst I've seen in five years." Dorr shook his head, then squeezed the handle of his mug. He stared at his mug, his eyes as empty as its contents, no doubt. "No, ten."

"And how many have you lost, Master Dorr?" The thin, gray haired man asked, though, Paladin wondered why Dorr would allow such a man to dwell in his company. The cloak on the old man's shoulders had seen better days, and his shaggy, gray beard could use a trim. He looked more like a beggar than a poor herder or farmer down on his luck. The type of men that Dorr often tried to take advantage of, he'd promise to pay off their debts if they let him buy their lands for much less than what they were worth, then he made them work the very lands their forefathers had labored on for generations with a promise to feed and clothe them with worse food than fed to his dogs and clothes a beggar would not want.

"Seven or so in the last two weeks. Double or more since they started vanishing. Only found three corpses."

"Seven?" asked Paladin. Dorr frowned. The other man put more furrows into his knotted brow as Paladin spoke. "Have your shepherds gone blind?"

For that, he expected a rebuke and a glare at the very least. However, Dorr settled for a weary sigh. It was as if his eyes were glued to his empty mug of ale. _Oh right, I ought to replace that._

Paladin took it gently and placed another pint in the man's hands. He took a long drought before he finally spoke, "I don't know, but I'm not the only one to lose so many."

The old beggar hmm-ed in response and adjusted his pipe. The aroma of weed tapped Paladin's nose. _Shire pipeweed? Must be a rich beggar, then_.

"A plague of blindness, perhaps?" Paladin quipped. "Did all of Ithil Eden's shepherds fall asleep while the wolves feasted?"

"Boy, don't make such jests," Dorr warned, raising a finger and wiggling it in a not-very-threatening way, "Those sheep and goats are our livelihood."

"A shepherd could say that, Master Dorr," Paladin said, part of him whispering that it might be a good time to shut his big mouth before he put his whole leg in it. Instead of taking his own advice, however, he continued on like an idiot wishing to be flogged. "You've got enough wealth to feed my home town a feast-a-day for three months. A year if you were fugal. Bet my week's wages on that."

The old man snorted. A ring of smoke tickled Paladin's nose. He coughed into his sleeve. "I would not be so quick to place that wager, young master."

"Paladin, sir," he supplied.

"Ah, I see," said the old man, reaching up to tip a hat that wasn't there. What a queer fellow. "You're a little tall for a hobbit."

Paladin hadn't even mentioned his last name, most people just thought he was a rather short man. He ran a hand through his hair then shuffled his feet. "Only a half hobbit sir, my father is a Longfoot, he married a maiden from the Republic of Rohan."

"Indeed."

 _Indeed? Is it that obvious!?_ _Appear to be working so they won't notice you blushing like a little tike caught stealing his father's wine_! Blood rushed to his cheeks, he pulled out the rag tucked into his belt and dabbed at the other mug self-consciously.

"Another, sir?" he asked the aging man once he felt the blush ebb.

"For me? I think I have had quite enough of Master Cerion's ale," he answered, eyes wondering across the table to Dorr's empty mug. Dorr's eyes were blood shot, but Paladin replaced his mug with the one he had brought for the old man, which Dorr began to down quickly, no longer speaking to either.

"He will not be much help in this state," said the old man as he withdrew a few coins from a wallet hidden inside his frayed cloak. They were golden crowns, an engraving of King Elessar on each one. The things had to be ancient.

 _How did he get those? Not a beggar then, maybe some kind of thief?_ Well, it wasn't his job to search out the respectability of the Master's patrons… He picked up a coin and bit it; pure gold, not wood or some other kind of metal.

"This," the old man took out another gold coin, dear gods, "will pay for our tab and his return home."

"That…will…? I mean, of course it…ah…would." _Very intelligent, Pal, pat yourself on the back._ He pointed to the coins laid out on the table. "What are those for then, my…my lord?"

"A few questions…, and a request." The man's keen eyes twinkled, causing a chill to run up Paladin's spine. Something was very odd here. Common sense, his father would say, advised that a man should be cautious around those willing to pay too much for information. Most were up to no good, or worked for the government…and therefore, were also up to no good. "Do not fear, I did not steal these."

 _Right, and I'm the heir to the throne of Gondor._ He decided that might not be the best thing to say, though he could not stop himself from lifting an eyebrow at the old man's choice of words.

"All the same, you don't see many people with them, not in Ithil Eden or…or…even in Minas Tirith," said Paladin, folding his arms, "What? Are you a wizened, rich hermit that lives in the mountains and makes gold sprout out of the ground at his will?"

"Of a sort." The man laughed. It wasn't _meant_ to be a jest! "You may call me the 'Rich Hermit' if you wish, my dear hobbit."

 _Half-hobbit_ , Paladin corrected subconsciously. He folded his arms. _I'm not that short._

The Rich Hermit blew a ring of smoke into the air over Dorr's head. The man barely noticed as he continued to mutter into his drink, eyes glazed over and mind addled.

"Well Master Hermit," Paladin began, "what do you need? I haven't much time, Master Cerion doesn't want me to conspire with the customers, I mean, since this is…for the Lord of the Fountain or someone important, right?"

"If we were conspiring, Master Paladin, I would not be asking questions about sheep. If I cannot take up your time now, you may consider this payment for the use of your time later," the old man said, smiling broadly. "You will meet me at the Silver Brooch tonight."

That was a small inn, but at least it was a real one, and far nicer than the Red Peony. It wasn't one Paladin would expect a lord to stay at, except, of course, if that nobleman were traveling the land incognito. _But why? And why ask about sheep and goats and shepherds? Why pay a small fortune for his help? Perhaps he's mad, or am I?_

Gold could make anyone do foolish things.

"I trust you know where that is," he said.

"Of…of course. I pass by it on my way home each night," he said, though the inn was actually a little out of the way. Alright, a lot of out of the way, but it did serve hearty meals. "But what help could I give you? I'm just a servant at a rundown inn, really, I'm not some Samwise the Great jumping out of the Red Book, though, I do make a mighty fine cup of tea, if I do say so myself."

"I am sure you do," said the old fellow, and then he left, leaving Paladin to ponder the man's strange words and the five sparkling coins on the table. The gold that whispered his name, it seemed to whisper things he ought to do instead. With these, he could run. He could decide to never help that peculiar old man. He could choose something that probably was much safer, warmer, and certainly filled with more food. He stuffed the coins into his pocket, looked at the now unconscious Dorr, and smiled, perhaps after today he no longer have to listen to shepherds speak of their poor sheep.

000

As the moon approach its zenith and rainclouds began to cover His face, Paladin finally left the Red Peony. As soon as he closed the door to the inn, a large raindrop splattered against his shoulder, another fell on his hand.

Paladin swore under his breath. He didn't have his overcoat. He didn't have his cloak. He didn't even have his hat! They were all at home, tucked away in his little room above Miss Rosey's bakery. Much warmer than he was now, that was certain. The best he could do was quicken his pace and hope he could get to the Silver Brooch before…

 _It starts pouring._

By the gods, he had no luck.

 _At least this hooded-lantern will light the way_ , he thought as he partially took off his worn coat to form a makeshift hood. Yet the thing only covered half of his golden curls, which made the chilly autumn rain that much chillier. Only half of his head was dry. Paladin sighed. He kept to the shadows cast caste by the shops, houses, and other buildings as he half-jogged through the lonely, dark streets of Ithil Eden in the moonless night.

Leastwise cold, rainy nights like this one were relatively safe. While a few thieves, beggars, guards, and other less honorable folk passed him by on his solitary journey through the mush and mire, they did not give him a single glanced. Darkness bred solitude like the four walls of his own room. He was just another unlucky soul stuck out in this downpour. He was just another questionable person going about their business. Another person so wet that their underpants were dank. A rainy night like this was sure to make the most heartless soul harbor an ounce of pity for his fellow man…or, so he hoped.

Paladin turned the final corner and spotted the sign for the Silver Brooch hanging crookedly upon its wooden pole. As Paladin approached the inn; he could see the firelight seeping out under its front door and through the cracks in its windows. He smiled. Perhaps he could get a bite to eat and a glass of warm cider before he spoke to the Rich Hermit. Dry off by the fire, get the rancor of rain, mud, and sludge out of his clothes as he ate a plate of meat and potatoes and used a pint of warm apple cidar to wash it down. His stomach grumbled at the thought of food. He had barely eaten all day, and those potatoes were sure to be as good as mother's on a night like thi—

A heavy hand landed on his shoulder. Paladin jumped. His heart ramming in his ears.

"Well, well, what have we here?" Luckless. Bloody luckless. Just ten more feet and he would've been safe and warm in the inn! He reached for his belt knife, but stopped when he felt a cold blade at his throat. A very sharp, very rusted, old knife, in fact. One that could kill in more than one way, though, he doubted the man behind him would know that. "A little-hob in the street. What a pleasant—"

"I don't have money," he lied. He could suddenly feel the gold coins through his pocket as clearly as the knife at his throat or the rain splattering against his bare forearms. Gods, he knew he should've ran instead of heading to the old man's inn to keep some ridiculous 'promise'. Maybe it was just an elaborate plan to get him caught like this! Maybe the old man was one of those crazed fools he read about in the paper…! The kind of man whom hunted young, innocent folk like him then cooked them in a black pot. A member of one those Dark Cults. _What have I gotten myself into?_ "Really. Both of us—"

"Are cold?" Yes. "Wet?" Yes. "Tired?" Indeed. "But look at you, in this part of town, you have to have something worthwhile to steal…"

What a snake. Paladin wished he could fight back. That he could struggle against the man's iron grip. Instead, he whimpered weakly. The man's other hand searched his coat for a wallet. The thief then checked his pockets. His greasy, warm hand slid into the one on the right, feeling inside of it. The thief found the coins. _Damn._ "A rich hob, eh?"

 _They could be fake!_ He wanted to say, but he couldn't unclamp his mouth.

The thief bit down on the coin. "Seems like gold to me."

Paladin swallowed hard. Still unable to speak, he knew if he didn't lie, the man might slit his throat, but if he thought Paladin was lying, the thief might slice it anyways. He could be the type that didn't care either way. Paladin's heartbeat quickened. His hands grew sweat.

 _Oh gods…_

"Not one for small talk, are you?" said the thief, he tightened his grip, a bit of warm blood driveled down Paladin's cold skin. "Where'd a poor fellow like you find so much gold?"

"I…umm—"

For some reason, the man dropped the knife. It clattered against the paving stones, barely messing Paladin's foot. He rammed his elbow feebly into the man's stomach then ran, not looking back. Not catching a glimpse of whoever had helped him as he slammed open the door to the Inn and stepped inside. He caught his breath, feeling safe and, more importantly, warm.

He smiled in relief, shutting the door behind him as he glanced around the room. Several tables were scattered throughout the room on top of the polished, wooden floor. Paladin sat down at one and called a serving lady to over, but when she arrived; he remembered that he'd lost his gold coins to that stupid thief. Paladin sighed, took out a few small pennies from his other pocket and handed them to the serving lady.

"Just a cider," he said with a heavy groan. The overweight woman gave him a nod, but before she could leave to get his drink, one of her other guests coughed loudly.

"Make that a cider and a good meal," said the Rich Hermit, causing the maid to turn and smile. A real, genuine smile. Paladin looked at the old man, but he could see nothing that should make a woman smile like that, not that he would know. His sister would though. "And bring it to my room; he is my guest, though a particularly late one."

"You only said sometime 'tonight', you didn't specify a time, you didn't say I couldn't come after midnight!"

The Rich Hermit gave him a warm, wry smile. "Yes, that is true, but it is almost morning," said he, "Come, there is much to be discussed before day, and you could use a warm fire and a good meal in the meantime."

Paladin nodded mutely and followed the Rich Hermit up the stairs to one of the rooms on the right-hand side. Soon, he was sat down at table in front of a roaring fire, eating his fill of potatoes, fish, and warm bread. He listened to the old man prattle as old men often do when they are in the company of the young. He finally introduced himself as Mithrandir, a strange name, though, Paladin had heard stranger among the children of Gondor. Soon, however, Paladin had finished his meal, and finally asked: "You said you were buying my time, but for what?"

Mithrandir raised an eyebrow. The man sat on a chair half facing the table and half facing the fireplace with his pipe in his mouth. He still wore his worn, grey garb; that was, a one-tone grey long-coat, shirt, and trousers tucked into a pair of dark grey boots. At least he had hung up his cloak on a peg by the fire, though it was the same shade of less-than-cheery grey.

"Mithrandir?"

"A man attacked you?"

"Yes," Paladin replied, shivering, "that thief took my coins. The gold. It's all gone."

"Ah, I will have to give you more then." Paladin blinked. "What? As you said, gold springs out of the ground at my command. Did you think that was all I had?"

"No, but I thought you were a criminal." He probably shouldn't have said that, Paladin backpedaled, "I mean…I…uh…just shut up, Paladin…"

"Do not worry, young hobbit," said the Rich Hermit, "It was not any friend of mine whom tried to steal my own coin from you."

"Yes, you're right, that isn't logical." Paladin scratched his head, blushing slightly.

Mithrandir puffed out a smoke ring before responding. "How did you escape? It seems your throat was nicked…"

"Oh that!" He coughed, rubbing his throat. It was a little sore, he would have to clean it to prevent infection just as his father had taught him, that knife had been rusty after all. It was too bad he had left the healings salves and herbs his father had given him back in his apartment. They were too far away to fetch them tonight, however. "I'm…not sure. He suddenly dropped the knife, I elbowed him, and ran. I guess I lucked out, perhaps a shaking fit overcame him and he lost his grip. It can happen."

Except he wasn't that lucky.

"I think not, my young friend," said the old man, "Nor did you knock him out. I doubt your actions…" he stopped speaking and frowned. The old man turned his head and looked at the door expectantly.

Someone knocked. "Come in."

The door opened quietly and a tall man wearing a dark cloak strolled in. It was remarkably only a little damp, the stranger must've spent some time downstairs before coming up here, but instead of removing his hood, he looked around the room, stopping when he spotted Paladin seated at the table.

"Mithrandir?" he asked, his voice was light but cold, like a chill breeze passing through a long forgotten forest.

"I see you've made it back in one piece, my friend," said the old man to the newcomer.

"These are yours, I believe." The newcomer placed five gold coins on the table by Paladin's empty mug. The half-hobbit stuffed them back into his pocket.

It was only when the hooded-man coughed that he remembered his manners.

"Ah…ummm, thank you. But, wait," he turned to Mithrandir; Paladin raised his eyebrows, "does that mean…"

"No," answered the old man, reassuring the young half-hobbit with a smile, "but I believe he is the man that saved your life, am I correct?"

"When I arrived, I apprehended the thief on my way to the inn," he confirmed, sitting in a chair across from Paladin. He refused to take off his hood, however. _What an odd gent._ "I did not know he was an acquaintance of yours…"

"We have only just met," said Mithrandir. For a time, neither spoke, but Paladin felt unspoken words pass between them as the Hermit meant the Hooded Man's unseen eyes. Finally, Mithrandir knitted his brow, causing the newcomer to sigh in response. "This young fellow goes by the name of Paladin Longfoot, a half-hobbit, as they say in these parts."

"A hobbit…? What did you tell him," said the Hooded Man, his voice taking on a dark undertone, "that you were in need of a burglar?"

"Of a kind," Mithrandir answered, making Paladin feel suddenly quite bewildered by this turn of events.

 _So they are thieves. Wonderful._

"Do not worry, Paladin, he is not as bitter or blunt as he appears," he said to the young hobbit, then, his gaze meant the shadowed eyes of the Hooded Man, "I am sure his expertise will be helpful, my friend."

 _What kind of mess have I gotten myself into?_ Paladin shook his head, then picked up a frosted cake from his plate.

"If he is to eat us out of house and home," replied the other, this time, glancing at the cake which was half-way into Paladin's mouth. Even with his hood up, Paladin felt the newcomer's ice cold glare upon the hand holding the pastry. He dropped the cake in an abrupt flash of guilt; it landed on the floor, regretfully ruined. "We do not need his help, if anything, he would only get in the way. What if…"

"Neither I, nor you, know the cause of this…nor have we gotten anywhere in the last three weeks..."

"You mean the sheep disappearing?" Paladin asked, "I still think the shepherds and 'hands have gone blind."

"Or unwilling to speak to a stranger wearing a dark cloak with his face obscured by a hood." This made the Hooded Man sigh once again. He certainly had a talent for showing off his displeasure. "They are too afraid to trust an outsider…"

"Wait, wait," Paladin waved his hand dramatically, knocking over his empty mug in the process. It rattled at first then fell off the table, and rolled across the floor, hitting one of the Hooded Man's black boots. The Hooded Man glared; Paladin shivered. "Ummm…, I thought you two were some kind of thieves or criminals or cultists or…?"

"And what, dear hobbit," said Mithrandir, "led you to think that?"

"The secrecy. The scary man in a hood. The crowns popping out of nowhere despite that Mithrandir looks poorer than a mountain goat…" Paladin blushed. "And the weird names. Who names their child something like 'the Grey Pilgrim'? That sounds like a thief's name to me…or…well, something devious or untrustworthy, or maybe a crown-man…"

He stopped, and frowned, wishing he had bit his tongue instead of letting his mouth run like that. They exchanged a glance, the Hooded Man laughed. "How is it that he knows more Sindarin than history in this age?"

Blood rushed to Paladin's neck as his embarrassment deepened. He was sure his face looked brighter than a red peony in the summertime. It was a good thing the room was dark enough that the other two could not fathom the extent of his embarrassment.

"Well," he began, squirming nervously, not sure how to put it. As was his normal tack, he let his tongue run wild. "The dead elven languages seemed more interesting than a bunch of half-baked legends stored in an ancient book edited so many times that no one can tell what's true and what isn't, well, at least, that's what my sister always said."

"Hmmm," Mithrandir replied.

"Wouldn't you say that legends hold some truth, hobbit?" asked the Hooded Man.

" _Half-hobbit_ , but...I never cared for such silly tales. Now, dead languages, those are a bit more interesting," Paladin said, though, he had the strangest feeling that he might be digging himself into a hole for some reason. A deep hole without a bottom. _Oh, donkey asses._ "I only studied a little bit of the elven languages, though, honestly it…it was my sister's idea."

"Perhaps she is half-wise and half-foolish then," the hooded man replied, Paladin balled his hands. If he were a stronger person, a better one, he wouldn't have let the Hooded Man stomp all over his sister's honor. He held his tongue, however. "Do you believe they were made by elves or men?"

"I haven't a clue," Paladin said, "lots of people say these days that if you can't see it or experiment on it or…"

"Test your theory?" Paladin nodded in response. "If, by chance, they do see evidence of your claim, they may not believe what their eyes tell them if it goes against the conclusions they had previously assumed. Such is the way of men in these days…"

"Are you sure you wish to reveal thisto him?" Mithrandir asked, taking his pipe from his mouth. He watched his companion with his unnervingly keen eyes. A thousand unspoken words seemed to pass between them in an instant. Mithrandir relit his pipe. "It is your choice, of course."

"I doubt he will reveal our secrets. With any luck, he won't know they _are_ secrets," he said, "He did not recognize your name, I take it?"

"He did not." Mithrandir's eyes sparkled. "Not even after he had rendered it into Westron."

What? Was the Rich Hermit named for some renowned hero? He hadn't a clue.

The hooded man lifted a slender hand up to his hood. For a moment, Paladin thought he saw something of shimmer on one of his fingers, but...he wasn't sure. Taking off his hood, the hooded man revealed a head of wavy, golden hair, and an impossibly fair face with high cheek bones and lineless, grey eyes. However, unlike Mithrandir, the hooded man had cut his hair in a modern style. It barely touched the bottom of his neck, whereas the old man's hair fell down his back like a bushel of grey wheat.

"Oh…you're…ummm…" Paladin's voice squeaked like a little girl's. _So very mature Paladin!_

"Pretty…ummm…that isn't the right word…" Paladin cleared his throat. "I mean, lord-like. I guess they wouldn't want to talk to a lord. They're farmers. Shepherds. They'd think you're a stupid lordling attempting to get to "know" the people by going among them in disguise. Let me tell you, that hardly ever works, you know, no offense."

The Hooded Man rolled his eyes, pushing a strain of golden hair behind…a leaf-shaped ear. Paladin gasped. _Dear gods…_

"Is…is that real?" As Paladin spoke, he leaned forward and reached out to touch the Hooded Man's ear. The golden haired man glared at Paladin's hand. It fell limply to his side. "Sorry..."

Mithrandir snorted. More smoke filled the room. The Hooded Man covered his mouth with one slender hand, glaring at the pipe like it was some kind of malevolent beast that had risen from the Deep.

"You're a…faery?" Paladin asked.

"An elf," said elf pointedly corrected him, "Not a sprite, not a spirit, nor faded or gone. I cannot say what has become of my kind, they live no longer in Ithilien as far as I have seen. You may call me Legolas Greenleaf."

"What kind of name—"

"It is merely a translation," he said this as if that should explain it. This did not sate Paladin's curiosity or stop his mouth, however.

"But, then…you're called 'Greenleaf Greenleaf', why would your mother let—"

"You might want to hold your tongue, young hobbit," said Mithrandir, raising an eyebrow.

"Or you, by some whim of fate, related to the Tooks?" Legolas asked.

"No." Paladin tilted his head. "Why?"

"He is calling you a 'fool of a Took'," came Mithrandir's reply, "an apt description at the moment, wouldn't you say?"

"Like Gandalf called Peregrin?" That wasn't a picture Paladin liked. He'd much rather be a Gamgee, all things considered.

They laughed. "Yes," Mithrandir responded once the laughter subsided, "now, Paladin, while we are fond of such memories, the hour glows late, why do you think I asked you to come?"

"I guess it makes sense then…with…being…you know…why you need help talking to the…shepherds and hands and stuff…" Paladin frowned, "but why me? I know some of them, they might listen to my inquiries…"

"That, Master Paladin," said Mithrandir, "is more than he has accomplished, though the most we would want is a sheep's corpse."

"So, I am a burglar?"

"Of a sort."

"A dead sheep burglar."

 _Gods._ He sighed, and looked out the window. In the distance, he saw the ancient fortress of Minas Ithil. According to legend, it had been the nearest outpost to Mordor and after that, the Enemy's stronghold. Now, centuries later, it was the palace of the Lord of the Fountain. And, for a moment, Paladin thought he saw a strange green light in the highest chamber. An impossible green flame, he turned back to his companions, but they were speaking in low voices. Again, he peered over his shoulder, but the fortress had fallen dark.

 _Just tired. Must have been seeing things._ He yawned. "Is there any place to sleep?"

"Are you not from here?" asked the elf. "Surely you would find your own bed more welcoming…"

"The second door, take Legolas' mat, our elven friend does not need sleep like you or I," Mithrandir grinned at the elf, whom only responded with a half-hearted sigh, "remember, Paladin, tomorrow will be an early start for the both of you…"

Paladin nodded, stood, and walked to the door, glancing back at the elf and the odd, old man for a moment. He knew he should know them from somewhere, but his mind was too tired, too muddled and slow to recall any history at the moment. He doubted it could be all that important. But, there was one thing he was sure of as he looked at the elf: _he doesn't like me…and I can't blame him._

Paladin closed the door behind him. He flopped down upon the fluffy bed unceremonially, and stared at the ceiling. What was he doing here with these strange people? He threw the covers over his head. _Why did you come? For a few gold pieces? You're an idiot, Paladin!_ He rolled over onto his side. _Don't you have work tomorrow?_

Paladin sighed, closing his eyes, but sleep did not yet come. Instead, he tossed and turned until the first grey light of early morn fell through his window, and a quiet, lonely voice sang a song of seagulls and the dawn.

000

Thanks for reading! Please review. Whimsy needs food.


	2. Sheep can't Fly

Several months later, it's time to update. A ton of A/N is at the bottom of the chapter, but it won't make sense without reading it. Also, has a flashback in _italics_. Sorry guys that the chapters are so, so long…-.-

Thanks to horseyyay AKA Morgoth for betaing this chapter; note for you, Alumgil was changed to Astoril because I can't find where I got "Alum" from, I _think_ it was in a dream.

Chapter 2: _Sheep can't Fly_

000

Ithil Eden had not existed—as a dream or a whim of man—the last time Legolas had dwelled in Middle Earth. Back then, the vale of the moon was still too dark for a city of Man to flourish, for any but the toughest plants to grow and the heartiest animals to live off the land. Aragorn had doubted that man would ever again settle the lands in the valley where Minas Ithil rested; that a city like Ithil Eden could survive near the moonlit fort. But Ithil Eden prospered. While grime covered both the people and the city, there was a certain energy here. A need for _haste_ often unmatched by his own kind.

 _Speaking of mortals_ , Legolas thought, hearing heavy footsteps behind him. The ladder that led up to the slightly sloped rooftop creaked under its burden. Legolas sighed, but did not turn or stand up to greet Paladin as he come up to the rooftop behind him, _it seems that someone hasn't inherited much more than his appetite from his hobbit forebears._

Hobbits were known to be naturally quiet on their feet, but 'stealthy' was not a word he would apply to Paladin. With a heavy _thud_ , the trapdoor slammed against the roof. Paladin climbed on top of the roof, thumping against the shingles as he scrambled to his feet. For a few minute, he stood still, gasping for breath.

 _Of all the folk in this city,_ Legolas wondered, as the hobbit's hairy feet plodded towards the edge of the roof where Legolas sat, _why did Mithrandir choose this hobbit?_

Certainly, Mithrandir could have found a different one. Paladin was loud, obnoxious, and much too blunt. He spoke too much and often without thinking. He was not exactly fit for this kind of business either, his more than plump form and breathlessness after such a short climb were clear signs of that. Paladin could not compete with the likes of Frodo or Samwise, nor even the likes Meriadoc or Peregrin. What? Did Mithrandir expect him to do? Lug the hobbit around the grassy hills and dales of the Ithil Eden hinterlands?

Perhaps the wizard was losing his touch. He was an elven warrior, former-prince of Mirkwood and Elven Lord of Southern Ithilien, not an annoying-hobbit-minder!

 _Mithrandir would say I have grown too cynical_ , _too bitter_. He was simply more realistic. Whatever spark Mithrandir saw in the young hobbit, Legolas could not grasp it, perhaps it was just nostalgia that had forced the wizard's hand.

Paladin sat down on the roof beside him, causing Legolas to glance over his shoulder at the hobbit, who had one hand up, ready to tap the elf on the shoulder.

Legolas cocked an eyebrow at the hobbit. Paladin's hand froze in mid-air; a moment later, it fell to his side.

"Oh," he said, cheeks turning pink, "I…uh…I thought you hadn't noticed me."

Legolas snorted.

"That was imprudent," said Paladin. He rubbed his back, looking away sheepishly, "By the gods, you must think I have less than a penny to my name!"

"Do you think these ears are only for show?" he asked, "You're so loud that a marching troll makes decidedly less noise."

"Ummm…" Paladin began, his face flushing redder in embarrassment; he blushed far more easily than most, it seemed. "Right. I suppose. You see, Master Greenleaf, I don't know all that much about elves."

"Which is a nice way of saying: 'nothing at all'."

"Well, I've never meant one before!" he said, "It's not every day that a fellow meets a being straight out of myth and legend. Yesterday, I would've sworn that elves and faeries didn't exist. Magic _shouldn't_ exist, but well, you _are_ magic."

"Mithrandir's the wizard," answered Legolas, offhandedly, though he doubted that Paladin would believe that either, "whom sent you up to the rooftop to fetch me, am I correct?"

This, amusingly, made Paladin's neck flush red. "Ummm, well, yes."

"Do you see that?" Paladin tilted his head as the elf spoke. Legolas pointed at the Sun. It was in the west, heading towards the horizon. "If I recall, Mithrandir said we needed to head out early, it—"

"I know, I know," said Paladin, shoulders drooping. _Ah_ , so this was the actual source of Paladin'sembarrassment, at least to an extent. "I hadn't meant to oversleep, it isn't like me, but I hadn't fallen asleep until just before sunup."

"Is that all?" asked Legolas.

"No…"

Legolas sighed.

"Is sighing your favorite pastime, much like hobbits and tea?" asked Paladin, smiling a little at his own jest. Legolas, however, gave the hobbit a purposeful frown. "Frowning too."

He rolled his eyes.

"My ma always said if you rolled your eyes enough, they'd roll right out of your head!" Paladin bit his lip. "And off the roof too and down into the street…you'd probably lose them, in this case…they'd probably end up in the gutter...and...umm..."

"Is there a reason you're trying to humor me?" he asked.

"Well," Paladin replied, scratching his ear, "you're uptight."

"As tense as a drawn bowstring."

"What?" He blinked. "Is…was…that a jest?"

"Elves don't jest," he replied, his voice taking on a grave tone.

"I suppose not," said Paladin. Inwardly, Legolas laughed. It wasn't that he disliked Paladin—well, he did, a little—but he did it more to rouse the young hobbit, than out of some newfound dislike for mortals. "And…I can't imagine…"

"Is there something that you wish to retrieve from your hole?"

"Only if I _had_ a hole _—_ wait, how did you know that?" asked Paladin, crawling back a little from the elf. He looked up at Legolas, squinting his eyes in suspicion. "Were you spying on me?"

Legolas chuckled.

"That's not funny!"

"Why would I have any interest in the doings of a random hobbit, Master Longfoot?"

"I…I…ummm…fair point," Paladin remarked, wearing a perplexed expression on his face, "yes, though, I do not live in a hole in the ground, sir. I haven't for more than eight months."

"Then, what do you need," said Legolas, standing up as he spoke; he stretched his long limbs, even elves got muscle cramps from sitting too long, "that we can't fetch from the market?"

"Herbs and salves…perhaps bandages…those kinds of things," Paladin replied, gesturing dramatically. He also climbed to his feet, brushing dirt off his pants with the back of his hands. "My father says a healer should never travel without his wares…especially out in the fields."

Legolas furled his brow, contemplating Paladin anew. That…wasn't what he had expected, it seemed that Mithrandir must have known about this, considering that the wizard always seemed to know more about anyone else than they did about him. Mithrandir had a particular habit of sticking his ears, nose, and hands into other people's business, even if they did not want him there. Legolas lifted a hand to his chin, examining Paladin in silence. A long time passed, Paladin shifted from foot to foot under his gaze, then Legolas finally nodded.

"You're a healer?" he asked.

"Technically, I _was_ apprenticed to my father," answered Paladinz, gaze dropping to the shingles under their feet. He stared at Legolas' boots. "I know enough to stitch up a wound, how to set a bone, what ingredients are needed to make a variety of salves and balms, that sort of thing."

"I see."

"But we mainly worked on…, well," Paladin paused, looking down at the street below as he rubbed the back of his head with his hand. Then he added in a quiet voice that barely rose above the sounds from the street below, "Farm animals. Pigs, horses, sheep, that sort of thing. Alfen's Mound, my home town, isn't all that big…"

"Then let us hurry," said Legolas as he walked across the roof to the still-open trapdoor. He slid down the ladder, barely touching its rungs with his feet. Softly, Legolas landed on the wooden floor. Soon, Paladin followed, thumping on the wood beside him. For a moment, he glanced at the door to the room Mithrandir and he had been sharing, but he did not hear the wizard's wheezy breathing or smell any pipeweed smoke. He would have to ask Mithrandir how he had heard of Paladin later, he decided.

Leaving the inn through the backdoor which led out into the stable, they quietly went out into the alley running between the Silver Brooch and a smithy, then out into the streets. Ithil Eden was no Minas Tirith, nor was it even as crowded as Avallonë, but _watching_ men go about their business was quite different than joining them on the streets. No one bumped or 'accidentally' ran into him, with his head bare and his fine long coat, they mistook him for a young nobleman out with his servant. A man dressed in similar attire, but with a much younger woman wrapped around his arm, sneered at him as they passed.

 _Or…'New Money'…_ , he thought, using the term he had heard men use for wealthy merchants and businessmen who, at times, made more money than the nobility. For a moment, Legolas watched the greying noble and his…woman go, they disappeared down another street, _considering the state of my companion's garb, that isn't too surprising._

In silence, the pair walked the white-stone streets of Ithil Eden. At times, horses and carriages passed them by, but most people were on foot. After last night's rain, the streets still had puddles and dank stones, the rainwater mixing with the things Man and beast had left in the streets. While some of it had washed away into the open sewers, most of it still remained. In the old days, Minas Tirith often reeked after a rainstorm. Legolas wrinkled his nose, Ithil Eden was no exception to that rule.

 _In fact, it's probably worse_. Or the centuries made it seem so. If any of the other elves had told him this seven months ago, he would be, once again, in Middle Earth traveling with a hobbit, he would have accused them of drinking too much wine or asked if they had hit their head while riding. Yet, here he was, as they traveled throughout the city's busy streets, however, his mind began to wonder…His journey back to Arda had all started when Astoril, a particularly annoying Noldo, had visited him at dawn, one spring morning when he was practicing archery on his small, wooded estate given outside of Avallonë.

" _Prince Legolas?" He lowered his bow, then whirled around at the sound of his former title. In the long years he had spent in the Undying Lands, he had grown unused to hearing it uttered. If an elf was being formal, most would call him 'lord', some were unaware that the Elven Lord of Southern Ithilien and the member of the Fellowship of the Ring had also once been the Prince of Greenwood the Great. Most who did know also respected his preferences._

 _Legolas frowned at the dark haired Noldo before him, resting his hands on top of his white bow. "Astoril?"_

" _It's excellent to see you as well, Laiqalassë," said the elf with a bright smile. He dug inside his robes for something. The gold-trimmed, red robe the Noldo wore was burdened with things, its large pockets stuffed with_ books _and other knickknacks. Legolas could even make out the faint outline of a traveling lyre near Astoril's chest. The Noldo was again on the path to ruining yet_ another _robe, the seamstresses would have Astoril's hid again._

" _Laiqalassë is of_ your _kind," he said, "he was of Gondolin, before it fell."_

" _He is a Sinda, like you," Astoril said, leaning his lyre against his leg. Then took off the robe he was wearing, underneath he wore a dark crimson tunic and brown trousers, then...he turned the robe over and shook it. Hard. Books fell out, a set of keys, some gold coins, and a half-eaten piece of old lambas still in its wrapping. Other things came out too, even a few poor attempts at woodcarving and crumbled up pieces of paper._

" _My folk are the Silvan," Legolas replied, staring at all the...junk Astoril had somehow fit in his pockets. There even appeared to be a few small seashells in the piles that had fallen out of the robe._

" _Yes, yes, it is your parents who are Sindarin, but you yourself are a lowly Silvan." He glared at the pile as though it had betrayed him. Again, Astoril went back to digging through his pockets. "What Silvan elf has the Sea-longing?"_

 _Legolas did not have an answer for that. None save him of the elves of Greenwood the Great had longed to sail, Thranduil had yet to hear the seagull's song, and he had yet to meet a Silvan whom had wanted to leave Middle Earth for Tol_ _Eressëa_ _. His Father had always said that the Silvan had the forest itself in their veins…_

 _He had once believed that was true for himself as well._

" _You're only upset because you share a simple scout's name," Astoril said, taking his silence for pride, of all things. Legolas did not mind Laiqalassë's company, though he did not know his namesake all that well. "I was told that you were unoccupied."_

" _Have the Teleri had enough of you?" he asked, dryly; placing the arrow back into his quiver. "Or did you finally decide to learn something other than how to not tend ships, not build vessels, and not sweep the docks all day?"_

"What's the point of tending great ships which do not sail far from land? Sweeping docks that have no filth?" asked Astoril, pulling out the thing he was looking for—a sealed letter on yellowed paper—from his pocket at long last. "Or practicing archery with a bow that is clearly not meant for hunting?"

" _I forgot how utterly enjoyable your presence can be," Legolas said, glaring playfully at the elf, though a few ounces of sarcasm lingered on his words. He placed his hand on his chest and inclined his head in a shallow, meaningless bow. "Forgive me."_

" _No you haven't!" The other elf grinned, putting his robe back on and placing his lyre inside of it. He then placed a hand on Legolas' shoulder, steering him away from the targets as well as Astoril's pile of...trash, and towards a pair of horses at the edge of the archery range. One was a elegant mare, the other a sturdy stallion. The stallion, a horse from his own stable with white fur, actually wore a saddle with two overstuffed saddlebags hanging from it. This…was odd… "Many, of course, agree with such assessments. The fellow who gave me this letter even told me that I, for once, could make my busybody useful."_

"Ironic."

" _I said so too," he remarked all too cheerfully, absently handing Legolas the letter. "I have no use, as you know, but alas, dear friend, you should read it. Although, I must warn you,_ _Laiqalassë_ _, you might not like it."_

 _He raised his eyebrows, misgivings crawling up his spine at Astoril's words. What could trouble him in paradise? Certainly, at times, the Lonely Isle could be a little boring, even with feasts, dances, dancing, hunting, and all manner of things to keep him and his mind occupied. Sometimes, however, he also felt lonely. Few of his mother's kin had come the Undying Lands, and only he and Mithrandir remained of the Fellowship of the Ring. It was not for lack of friends either, but most of his new ones had not known him long ago when he had dwelt in Arda, and those who had, had not known him well back then, and none, save a few distant cousins, were his kin._

 _Back in Middle Earth, he had longed to cross the Sea and make his home here, but even in the forests outside of Avallonë his heart had not settled. He had simply traded one longing for another: instead of longing to sail, he still missed his home, his people, and kin. Yet it was not enough to make him go often to the docks of the Avallonë and stare East, as some elves did.(1) Instead, Astoril oft suggested that was why he spent so much time alone, practicing 'useless' archery. Astoril needed a new hobby other than troubling him with his strange philosophy._

" _Well, will you read it or not?" asked the elf, looking over his shoulder. "We do not have all day."_

"These are the Undying Lands, Astoril, we

do _have all day. Why such haste?"_

" _What, are we those Ent-things from Fangorn?"_

 _Legolas rolled his eyes at the other elf's choice of words. It was sometimes hard to believe that Astoril was actually only a few years younger than Elrond, and therefore, more than three millennia older than himself. He often felt like he was speaking to a much younger elf, perhaps it was Astoril's lack of experience. Astoril had never left the Undying Lands, though other elves who were from here had more…tact, more wisdom. Astoril had neither._ Perhaps, _Legolas mused,_ it's simply Astoril.

" _Yes, Olwë might say such things," said Astoril, "and I agree, Tol Eressëa is slower than a snail slithering across the beach, or a seedling growing into a tree, or one of Lord Elrond's lectures on—"_

 _Legolas sighed, raising one of his hands. Quickly, he scanned the letter, then looked up at Astoril, stung by its news. "Mithrandir's leaving?"_

 _The words left his mouth dry._ As an embassy of the Valar, Mithrandir might be gone for centuries, even millennia. He...

" _On the morrow," answered the elf, "he requested your presence."_

" _Why must you_ read _things that are no concern of yours?" The only response he got to that was a sly smirk. Why did Astoril enjoy being such a bother? "Mithrandir did no such thing."_

" _Well, he_ did _inform you that he was departing for Middle Earth,_ I _told you_ when _, and he sent_ me _knowing that I would do so." That was true. The Maia liked these types of games, they were usually harmless in and of themselves, but that did not mean they would not lead to harm later on. "He wants you there. I would guess to say farewell in person."_

 _He placed a hand on the stallion's side, eyeing the saddlebag for a moment before he looked back at Astoril. "Is that why you filled my saddlebag until they could barely clasp?" He pulled on one of the silver clasp for emphasis._

" _Me?" Astoril gave him his best innocent smile. It wasn't very convincing. "No, your servants did that."_

" _At your bequest," Legolas replied._

 _Astoril leaped onto his mare's back. She was not burdened with saddle, bags, or reins. Despite that, Legolas pitied her more than his mound, she, sadly, had to contend with Astoril. "I may have persuaded them that it was warranted."_

" _How, Astoril, did you ever convince my servants to go along with your foolhardiness?"_

" _So verbose. Simply? I told them the truth: you won't be coming back." Astoril kicked his horse's flanks, leaving Legolas standing there, gawking at that misbegotten…useless…elfling's retreating back in disbelief and…anger. He stared for a moment longer then climbed onto his own horse, and despite his misgivings, he followed the elf as early dawn slipped away, fading into morning._

Now, seven months later, Legolas still found Astoril's words troubling. He hadn't expected to leave with Mithrandir when he arrived at the docks. He hadn't expected that the wizard would even ask him to accompany him on this journey. Yet, here he was travelling again with a young hobbit. Fate…had other plans.

Whilst distracted, something black whizzed by. Legolas blinked. He'd...nearly ran into a _carriage_. _Or had it nearly run into me?_

Either way, it crossed in front of him, separating him from Paladin. The driver swore, yelling for anyone in the street to get out of his way as the black carriage and its team of four horses rushed through the crowd. Most dashed to the side. It almost trampled one elderly woman, but a tall, greying man jumped in, half-picked her up and placed her safely on the side of the road. As the carriage whirled past, however, he spotted a stooped man and a little girl sitting beside him inside the carriage. The girl met his eyes, then gave him a sad, weak smile.

"Oh…," said Paladin, hobbling back to him once the carriage had gone, "they didn't run over you."

"Who are they?" he asked

"You've been here three weeks and you _haven't_ heard about good Lord Medlion and his black carriage?" Paladin placed his hands on his hips. "I thought elves were supposed to be wise and impeachable!"

"I've spent most of that time in the fields." _Uselessly_. Paladin shook his head and 'tutted' playfully, as though he were speaking with a wayward child. "Paladin."

"He's the Prince of Minas Ithil, a descendent of Faramir," Paladin said, as they, again, began to head towards Paladin's home, "always in a hurry. Never thinks about us small folk down in Ithil Eden, but sometimes takes a ride in that damned carriage of his. Suppose he must find it thrilling to run over little old ladies for sport!"

Legolas frowned. "And the girl?"

"It's his daughter, Linathel, _terrible_ Sindarin," answered Paladin. The elf 'hmmmed'. Curious, the white haired prince looked more like her great-grandfather than her father, while it was possible...it was unlikely. _Unless he stole her mother from the crib. Despicable, Faramir would be ashamed to know one of his line has sunk so low._ "But that doesn't matter, we need to hurry, right?"

Legolas gave him a brief nod.

Soon, they turned down another street, passing some invisible barrier into the poorer part of the city on the outskirts nearest to the mountains in the north. Here, the building here were older, made of wood or mudbrick, brought up from the small stream that ran along the city's southern flank of the city and eventually fed the river Anduin. The alleys that ran between the structures on either side were far and few between, each building standing wall to wall to its neighbor. Many were three stories or more high, casting the streets below in shadow. It shouldn't have been so dark on the now-cobblestone streets, but sunlight barely reached the city crowd in the streets below. These were the tenements of Ithil Eden.

"Leggy," said Paladin, breaking him out of his own thoughts.

" _Leggy?"_ He grimaced. "It's Legolas." He would _not_ allow that young, foolish hobbit to call him that despicable nickname.

More than half-century of it was enough.(2)

Before Legolas could reprimand him for it, however, Paladin added, "This is it." The hobbit tugged on the sleeve of Legolas' long coat, pointing at a ramshackle building that appeared little different than the others beside it. Made of wood, it was a squat, two-story structure with a flat roof and a wooden sign in it's only glass window.

"Rosey's Bakery?" Legolas asked, looking down at Paladin. "Haven't you _eaten_?"

The hobbit opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, the door slammed open. Paladin's eyes widened, but he instantly slammed his mouth shut, glancing up at Legolas then back at the dark-skinned woman in the doorway. She stood on the front step, crossing her arms over her narrow chest, a white apron covered in food stains and printed red roses hanging from her strong shoulders.

"Where have you been?" she said, anger flickering in her dark eyes. However, she did not shout at her tenant.

Paladin gulped.

She did not have to.

"You left the window open." She lifted her head, braids and beads jingling as she gestured to the window above. Both elf and hobbit looked up at her unspoken command; on the second floor, various, wet herbs sagged on a rope inside the second-story window.

"I…I…" Pink dusted Paladin's cheeks. "I didn't know it was going to rain like that!"

"But you _did_ know that it was _raining_ ," she pointed a finger at his chest. "Or did you drink yourself under the table with the farmers and shepherds again?"

"No!" He raised both hands. Legolas let a smile touch the corner of his lips. "It's…I hardly even had any ale!"

"Then where in the Doomsman's Halls were you?!" She asked. Some passersby glanced their way; most, however, did not seem to care about the argument happening in the street near Rosey's Bakery. Legolas doubted this was the first time such a quarrel between proprietress and tenant had occurred. "The bakery sprung a leak, it ruined the cake for Lord Elmir's daughter's wedding! Paladin, he'll now go to _someone_ else…do you realize how much this will cost me?"

"I'm sorry." Paladin hung his head in shame.

"Show me your remorse," she demanded, "how do you intend to pay for it?"

"I…" the word melted on his lips. Paladin groaned, glancing back at Legolas, he mouthed a single word: "Help."

"I have hired him," Legolas said, joining them; that was not exactly a lie, either, but the next part was, "to care for my father, he has fallen quite ill. Mistress…Rosey?"

"It's _Miss_ Rosey," the woman corrected. "And you couldn't find a different healer?" As he had assumed, however, she was aware of Paladin's particular talents.

"He requires near- _constant_ care which I cannot provide myself, someone must also run the family business." At these words, she wrinkled her nose, glancing at Paladin for a moment. Paladin nodded, perhaps a tad too eagerly. "While there are other healers in the city, most have clients they need to tend, or if they are available for individual caretaking, they cost more than I am willing to pay."

She motioned for the hobbit to come closer to her and placed an arm around his shoulders, then grabbed the tip of his ear and whispered into it.

"What are you thinking?" she asked, voice taking on a sharper tone. "People like him, they're no good. They keep people like us living down here, in the slums, or take away the shepherds' and farmers' lands like Master Dorr. Greedy bastards the lot of them."

"Rosey," he said, "he can _hear_ us."

Legolas coughed, tapping his foot and looking at his wrist like he was wearing one of those small, mechanical timepieces. Attempting to act the part of one the said greedy bastards, while also trying to signal to Paladin that the hobbit shouldn't reveal his secrets.

Rosey looked over Paladin's at Legolas for a moment, then shifted her gaze back to Paladin. "Good Valar…," she whispered, face darkening; she had an interesting vocabulary for one of the Haradrim, "what are you on about?"

"He's…" This time, Legolas faked a sneeze. "Ummm…, a _good_ greedy bastard."

"Paladin." She shook her head at the hobbit. "There's no such thing."

"Listen," Paladin said, placing a 'reassuring' hand on her shoulder, "this is my best chance. You know that most big folk don't think little people like me can even _be_ healers. He, at least, _trusts_ me."

Legolas wouldn't say that, but they did need some kind of story to cover their tracks. Paladin would not be home very often over the next several days, they needed some reason _why_ , although, Legolas worried it wasn't a very convincing one.

The woman closed her eyes. "Why must you always be so naïve…"

"It'll only be a few weeks." Paladin squeezed her shoulder, giving her a bright smile. "I'll be fine. And anyways, leastwise you won't have to worry about me leaving the window open."

"Go on then, fetch your things," she said, then glanced up at Legolas. She was only a few inches shorter than him, making her an inch or so above six-feet tall.

"You'll want to check what _services_ you've bought, _sir_ ," said she, then added in a smaller voice, "make sure he comes back safely…from whatever you're up to..."

Legolas gave her a subtle nod. Rosey, obviously, still doubted his motives. He didn't blame her. He placed his hands in his pockets and nodded, following Paladin through the well-stocked bakery into the back of the shop. A multilayered cake sat on the table, soggy and ruined, its frosting pooling onto the platter beneath it. He placed a half a dozen gold pieces on the table, writing a quick note for Rosey before he followed the hobbit upstairs. It was probably too much money, but greedy bastards did not realize how much things cost.

At least he hoped. He didn't know how much it cost _either_. It was probably enough gold to buy a new shop in this part of town.

After reaching the end of the hallway on the second floor, Paladin opened the door, entering. The lf followed, stepping inside the sunlit room. It was small and square, the small table in the center covered with mason jars, glass bottles, and potted plants. Two small shrubs in old, wooden boxes filled with dirt sat by the window, growing at a slight angle to catch the sun's light. On one wall, there was a small fire pit. Here a black pot hung above cold coals. At the other end, a ladder led up to a loft, where Paladin had placed an actual mattress, blankets, and a trunk for clothes.

Yet, that was not what caught Legolas' keen eyes. Underneath the loft, there was a bookshelf made of discarded wooden, boards. On it were a few aging tomes but mostly jars, bottles, and other containers of various shapes and types filled its shelves. It was a surprisingly neat, though overfilled, room, and more remarkably, clean.

"Sorry for that display," Paladin said, stepping over a few plants that had not made it onto the table as he crossed the small room. He grabbed a bag hanging on one of the pegs next to the cold fire. He also took his coat and cloak from the back of the wooden chairs situated around the table. The chairs also had potted plants and small jars on their seats. On another chair, he had placed his teapot, cups, and saucers. _Hobbits._ "And the lie. I suppose making you out to be some appalling want-to-be nobleman wasn't the best idea."

Legolas only gave Paladin brief nod in response. On one of the back of the faded books, something glimmered, like threads of gold on one of the books' spines. Perhaps it had been the title of the book once, but it had mostly faded away. He strolled over to the bookshelf on silent feet as Paladin continued to chirp like a newly hatched chick.

"But, she wouldn't believe me if I told her you were an elf," said he. Legolas took the book off the shelf. "She doesn't exactly like me, regardless. Always doing something wrong like leaving the window open or burning dinner or whatever else. She always finds—

"Ah," said the elf, opening the book to the first page, then smiled ever so slightly. "Just as I thought."

"—something to disapprove of…Leggy?" Paladin looked over his shoulder, then his eyes widened. He marched up to Legolas...trying to appear intimidating but only coming off as rather puerile. "Hey! Do you think it's alright to snoop through people's stuff?"

"This is a copy of the Red Book."

"Of course it is, I'm a half-hobbit." Paladin placed a hand on his hip.

"A poor one."

"That might be so, but my family isn't." Paladin glared.

Legolas turned to a random page. Someone had scribbled notes in the margins, though the handwriting was too cramped and tiny to decipher. Trailing a finger down the page, he found what he was searching for. Here he read: _Legolas was away much among the Galadhrim, and after the first night he did not sleep with the other companions, though he returned to eat and talk with them. Often he took Gimli with him when he went abroad in the land, and the others wondered at this change_.(2) At the mention of his old friend's name, his heart sank, but centuries had passed since the dwarf had died in his house on the Lonely Isle, surrounded by family and friends. For a moment, his eyes burned with tear, but if Paladin had noticed anything, he never said.

Paladin didn't seem like the perceptive type.

"It was a gift from my sister. She got it from our aunt."

"I see. So, she was better read than you, I take it?" asked the elf.

"If by better read, you mean she enjoyed reading faery tales," he paused, shook his head, then he added, "then, yes, sure."

Legolas caught himself before he rolled his eyes at Paladin's ignorance. Mithrandir had advised him to be patient with their 'young friend' and how he saw the world. Yet, Legolas was an elf, he had _plenty_ of patience. Living millennia had taught him that. Despite the wizard's advice and elven perseverance, Legolas turned the book over, showing Paladin the page be had opened the book to earlier, pointing to where he had seen his name written in Westron.

Paladin's brow furrowed in thought, then he folded his arms and went back to filling his bag. "So?" He said. "You were named for one of the characters? Lots of hobbits are named for Merry, Pippin, Frodo, and Sam too, you know."

This time, Legolas could not hold back his reaction. He sighed.

"Oh c'mon, Master Legolas," said Paladin, grabbing something from the shelf behind them. Paladin sniffed it, nodded, and placed some of it into a much smaller clay jar. "Whatever is true in the Red Book happened well over a thousand years ago, none of the folk involved would still be alive today, people just don't live that long."

"Elves are immortal."

Paladin waved a hand, still looking through his jars of herbs and salves. "And sheep fly," he replied.

"If you throw them hard enough."

Paladin grabbed something else from the shelf, stuffed it into his bag, and swiveled around on the back of his heel. He gave Legolas a flat look.

"Master Legolas," he said, fetching some bandages off the table, "if elves are immortal, where have the elves of Ithilien gone? Even if they all decided to get up and leave, I'd expect at one to have _stayed_. You may be the first elf I have ever met, but you can't expect me to believe that you are over fifteen-thousand years old...now, can you?"

"Why would they reveal themselves to you in particular?"

"I...don't know." He shrugged.

Legolas smiled.

"I don't know," Paladin scratched his head, "but if they did, it's no proof that they've been around so long."

"I see..." He didn't. Were all contemporary hobbits this...frustrating and stubborn?

"Now," said Paladin, pointing to himself, "I'm not stupid." _Debatable._ "Of course, elves live a long time. There has to be some truth to the stories, methinks, a bit like dwarves, a few hundred years a piece, right?"

Legolas remained silent. _He…does believe this orc-shit_. In some ways, it amused him.

"Oh, don't give me that look! It's not like you would want to be older than the trees and hills themselves! That sounds like an awful bore." Paladin swung his bag over his shoulder. "Will I need a change of clothes, you think?"

He sighed, letting the subject drop. Paladin was like a boulder half-buried in the mud, he doubted he could persuade him that elves were immortal or that there had once been a Dark Lord on his Dark Throne in the wasteland beyond the mountains.

"Yes," Legolas replied, "bring a few, and some undergarments."

It probably wasn't worth trying to convince him.

After all, sheep can't fly.

000

(1) It is said that all such longings/pains are cure upon coming to the Undying Lands, but the nature of the Silmarillion (and such phrases) is more of a generalization than an absolute. I think it depends on numerous factors, anyway, I am willing to talk about this, but not here...

(2) Aragorn's children onced used that nickname, Legolas wasn't amused by it back then either.

(3) JRR Tolkien, _The Fellowship of the Ring_ , 359.

A/N: Lots of notes, divided into sections! ORC-SHIT. (Gimli's favorite curse). I cut this down, actually…lol.

 **(New) Characters**

Elmir: Not glue.

Linathel: SOMEONE BUTCHERED THE SINDARIN. It should be 'Liniathiel'. What happened is, Medlion thought it was a lovely name, though.

Medlion: Is a jerk, makes Faramir sad in the afterlife.

Rosey: She has some Haradrim blood in her, and chose the name 'Rosey' for herself…there's more to her, though.

Astoril: _Nah_.

 **World/City/Words/Etc.**

Ithil Eden IS close to Minas Ithil. The valley has changed since the days of old, and in some ways become broader and safer for men and hobbits. Minas Ithil is, now, where the wealthiest nobles and 'new money'-types live, and perhaps some merchants, while Ithil Eden is the home for everyone else. Informally, they're known as the Twin Cities, but we have had a pov character who sees them as such, there is one later, though.

NEXT CHAPTER: The Two Hunters


	3. The Two Hunters

_The Two Hunters_

*Sits on this for forever and a day.* Let's go, people. Beta by (Horseyyah AKA) Morgoth

Legolas had said it would be a whole day (or more), before they reached the shepherds and their sheep. He hadn't seemed thrilled, as though he was certain he could've reached them much sooner if he didn't have a certain half-hobbit tagging along. Paladin huffed. At least it was a nice, sunny day to trek through the hills and dales out of Ithil Eden.

It could have been raining. The fact that it wasn't should have been a relief. It wasn't. The sun beat down, making him sweat. It was humid, making his hair stick to his neck and forehead. And his company had remained solemn and silent as the few ancient trees that dotted the hinterlands. All things considered, it had been an awful day with awful company, but at least the sun was starting to set and they would soon have to sleep.

 _In the fields._ He should've ran when old Mithrandir gave him that coin. Sleeping outdoors was for dogs, sheep, and unlucky shepherds, not for _civilized_ peoples. The more he thought of it, the more his stomach filled with dread, he hated camping. He hated this. What in heavens…

 _What is…that is most odd._

Paladin stared at the elf's feet.

Wearing soft, leather boots, they looked like the feet of a man, but long and narrow. Yet, something was odd about them, different. He frowned.

 _They're hardly bending the grass,_ he thought, with a frown.

Despite his slender built, the elf was still tall, taller than any man Paladin had ever seen at least by a few inches. Even as skinny as he was, Legolas barely left a mark on the fields, he was more graceful than a ranger practiced in stealth.

Paladin stood there for a few moments with his eyes closed, listening for the sound of elven footfall. Nothing. They were impossibly silent.

"If you cannot…," as his voice trailed off, Legolas looked back over his shoulder at Paladin, "please, don't tell me you need to catch your breath so soon, I will take you back to town and find someone whom is actually _useful_ if you can't manage such a slow pace."

Slow? This was supposed to be _slow_? Bloody elf, Paladin felt like his thighs might burn off from their 'leisurely' stroll through the hills and dales. Slow, indeed!

Still, warmth rushed to Paladin's cheeks. Damn, he wished he didn't have to blush at every insult thrown his way.

"It isn't that," he said. Paladin jogged up to the elf, definitely _not_ panting or catching his breath. "Sir…, ah…Master Legolas, I am sorry, I…"

The elf cocked an eyebrow. "Ask." The elf waved a slender hand at him, still annoyed, if his posture was any indicated. "One question."

They continued to walk as Paladin gathered his thoughts, placing his hands in his pocket. The sun began to delve below the horizon, turning the fields and mountains which bordered them to shades of orange and gold. It was beautiful out here, the hills and dales dappled with poppies and honeysuckle, the song of birds whistling from the sky above. He sighed, still perplexed by what to ask.

"How is it," Paladin said at long last, "that your feet land so softly on the grass?"

At the sound of the elf's bell-like laughter, Paladin wrinkled his nose.

"What?"

"It is the nature of my kind to be light of foot," he answered. He stood still, then raised a slender hand to his brow. Legolas gazed at the setting sun, with a sigh, he added, "Soon, Master Hobbit, we must set up camp."

When the first stars began to appear in the eastern sky, and the west turned a deep orange, verging on red, they came to a small wood of tall trees, their crowns topped with small green leafs and white flowers. Those were dogwoods, blooming late. Some oaks and other trees grew here too, for a moment, Paladin stood there frozen, gazing at the Fae Wood.

He had heard tales about this place at _The Red Peony_.Some of its guests said it was haunted by faeries.No, no, he did not believe the tales that faeries lived in the wood, those were just old wives tales and stories told by farmers and shepherds who had too much ale to drink. After all, Legolas was a perfectly solid elf, even if he didn't leave much of a trail in the grass. Upon said elf's cold glare, Paladin hurried into the woods after him, forgetting his silly fear of childish tales.

In the wood, the scent of wild roses mixed with that of fresh water, and the bright sound of birdsong intertwined with rumbling water falling into an unseen pool. Following a small stream, they came to a sudden drop and Paladin nearly fell over a hidden ledge.

Legolas grabbed his cloak and dragged him back from the edge.

"This place…," he began, letting the half-hobbit go, voice saddened, "has changed much since I was last here."

Paladin glanced up at him, noting the distant look in the elf's grey eyes. For a moment, they seemed old, perhaps ancient, but he dismissed it as a trick of the mottled sunlight.

He would not believe in fairytales, though one walked beside him.

 _And just saved my life_ , he thought, _perhaps…no. How could I even consider it?_

Light feet and sad looks weren't enough evidence to buy into the elf's puerile story.

"Were you here last in winter?" Paladin asked, hiding his doubt behind a pile of sarcasm, "it was unusually cold, even the fountain froze over."

Legolas sighed, shaking his head. "Come Master Sluggard," he said. Paladin folded his arms across his thick chest, making his sack of herbs and bottles jingle a little on his back. He wasn't _that_ slow, his packs were just heavy! That was a horrible excuse. "If we start now, we might make it down there before the moon has risen high enough for us to see his face."

Paladin rolled his eyes, but followed the elf down the steep slope. It took longer than he had expected, and the glove was larger than he had first thought. On unseen paths they walked, led by elven memory. The trees here were closer together, the underbrush thick, sometimes coming up to Paladin's chest. Every once in a while, Legolas cut it back with his long, steel knife, a few words in whispered elvish flowing from his tongue.

He sounded like he was apologizing to the weeds. Paladin shook his head. Elves were strange, why apologize to shrubs and briers?

After some time had passed, they came to a small ravine, the sound of rushing water reaching his ears. It seemed swollen and high; run-off from last night's storm. To Paladin's surprise, a beautiful stone bridge had been built over the stream. Covered with moss and weathered, it seemed ancient and forgotten, long unused by Men. Why build a bridge like that in a nameless wood like this?

And how had the elf known where to find it?

"Is it safe?" Paladin asked instead, deciding he didn't want to know the answer to his other questions.

"A dwarf built it, long ago," answered the elf, a smile touching the corners of his lips, "their handiwork is sturdier than any man's, and he...was one of their finest."

In silence, they passed over it, not a speck of stone falling off into the river. It was just the river-spray that sent a chill up his spine. Certainly. Despite that the river whittled through the rocky gorge some twenty feet below.

Why did that damn elf have to sound so sincere?

 _Either Legolas is insane or…_ He smoldered that thought. He would not let the elf win.

At last, they came to the pool. It was almost a lake, really, or perhaps a large pond. In its still waters, it reflected the heavens, a sliver of moon and the stars shimmering in velvet; the silver-streak(1) crossing the sky.

Paladin grumbled, the elf had been right. He was a sluggard after all. Dumping his pack on to the ground with a heavy groan, he sat on the bank, placing his hairy feet in the pleasingly cold, fresh waters. Spreading his arms out on either side, he crumbled the moist, rich dirt beneath his fingers, a solid sigh escaping his mouth as he closed his eyes.

That was his final mistake.

Water splashed onto him, a whole _lot_ of water. Chilled to the bone and wet as a fish, his eyes popped open, and he glared at the elf standing in the pond, whom was dripping wet himself. He wasn't immune to water at least.

"Aren't the Eldar supposed to be beyond childish pranks?" he asked, not quite comprehending what he spoke as shock worked his tongue. "Thousands of years old, what is the matter with you!?"

An amused grin spread across the elf's fair face. "That's the proof which you needed?"

"No!" Paladin said, staring at him with still-wide eyes. Water trickled from his hair to his chin and shoulders. "That…that's utter nonsense!"

He would _not_ let the elf win.

He waved his hand, splattering water at the elf.

Legolas shook his head, eyes flashing with amusement. He then strutted past him with long, graceful steps, heading back into the trees.

"Take this," said the elf somewhere behind him in the thick woods.

A few seconds later, something hit him in the back of the head with an audible _thump_. He rubbed his head, turning around. It was a stick. Knowing that baffling elf, he'd done so on purpose. Heading back towards him with a bundle of sticks and branches in his arm, Legolas dropped them on the ground a little up the bank, where the soil wasn't quite as wet.

"Do you know how to start a fire, Master Took?"

Paladin winced at the implied insult. "Yes," he opened one of the outer pockets of his bag, taking out a piece of flint and a hatchet. "Of course. How foolish do you think I am?"

The only response he got to that was a raised eyebrow.

"Right."

"Do so before I return," the elf said, arranging the tinder, "That should give you an hour at least."

Paladin tilted his head. "And what will you be doing?"

"Hunting."

Legolas disappeared into the woods. Puffing out his cheeks in annoyance, Paladin swiped flint against steel, trying to kindle a flame. The air was too wet, but he'd be damned if he let that elf win.

It did not take Legolas long to find a hare taking a drink from the stream up river. Shooting two arrows in quick succession from a branch hanging above the swift river, Legolas downed the hare, its body falling on the bank. He leaped down, landing beside its fallen form. Blood had already begun to seep from the wound in its leg, the other, at near its chest, had been a cleaner shot.

Neither arrow had killed _her_. That was a pity.

She looked up at him with dark, pain-filled eyes, fear edged into her features. "I am sorry," he said, placing a hand gently on her neck, "Allow me to end your suffering."

Quickly, he ended her life by breaking her neck, then picked up her corpse. Hopefully, she did not have any young. Legolas looked up at the moon. He still had the better part of an hour to go, and by the smell and sound of things in the woodland, Paladin still hadn't managed to spark a flame. That didn't surprise him, even a ranger would have difficulty starting a fire when the air was still so damp.

Instead of rejoining that bothersome hobbit, Legolas waded through the shallow stream, then headed deeper into the woods. As he walked, a few of the trees whispered. They were surprised, as though they had not met an elf in centuries. Some, even, seemed scared.

Many of these trees, no doubt, had never felt the presence of an elf in their mists.

They were so young, yet for their kind they were old. Dogwood trees were neither native to Ithilien nor did they live all that long compared to other trees. The first dogwoods his folk had planted were gifts from Cirdan when Legolas had established a colony of Silvan in the eastern boughs of Southern Ithilien. For most of the trees in this wood, that would've been eons ago.

This wood had been home to the northern-most outpost of that colony. Although the Shadow had fallen years before it was established, at Faramir's request, his people had set up in this wood. Close enough to the Minas Morgul to keep an eye on it and anything that might creep out of through its gate, but far enough to escape any remnant of Mordor's influence.

Silvan, despite being elves, were more prone to superstition, and they had more fear and hatred of the Shadow than their 'wiser' kin. He couldn't blame them for that, they had held against the Shadows forces for centuries. Perhaps the real reason he had come back was that his heart longed to see his brave kin once more, not just that Mithrandir had requested his presence on this quest.

That was, Legolas realized, why he had gone so deep into the woodland. Here, its most ancient of trees grew: oaks, ferns, and pine. They were here before his kin had planted the dogwood trees, before mankind had given it that inane moniker: the Fae Wood. Some of these trees, perhaps, had been here before he had left these shores.

 _This is foolishness,_ a part of him chastised, _oaks rarely live so long, where do you think you are, Legolas, Fangorn?_

The rest of him wanted that small voice to shut up, as the dwarf would say. He listened to the dwarf.

Having hope was better than naught, he sought out the oldest tree in the woods. Soon, he found himself face to face with a sprawling oak, its boughs touching the ground. Some of its leaves had already turned, signaling that it was nearing its end.

"I hope you are not already asleep, old friend." He pressed a hand against the ancient oak.

 _Do you remember me?_ Legolas asked, letting his mind touch the soul of the tree.

For a few moments, he received no response, as though the spirit of the great oak was dead. Then, he felt a wave of astonishment. Although, it was more like a series of pictures than a feeling, and perhaps, more of a _sense_ than a picture, but his mind translated what the tree felt into images. First, surprise: young plants sprouting in summer; cold rain falling on dry leaves after a long drought; a new spring coming earlier than the tree had expected.

Suddenly, the images changed. Cold, winter. An early frost. Loneliness, despite that other trees lived in the wood. A series of countless seasons passing in quick succession, seeming to mark the passage of time.

At the end, he saw the woods dying, old friends falling into the ever-winter. Then, darkness, a winter night sky filled with neither moon nor star.

In dreadful surprise, he drew his hand away and took a step back, staring at the ancient oak.

 _Old,_ his mind translated each image, _sad_ , _my friends are gone_. _I have lived many a season, yet I do not recall one such as you._

His heart sank, even the oldest tree in this wood had forgotten him. Worse, they did not remember the elves that had once dwelled here. They were only remembered as _fae_ in the tales of men.

With a wearied heart, he headed back towards camp and that foolish hobbit.

Where was that grumpy elf?

The moon stood at its zenith, washing the pond and its banks in an eerie grey light with dark, heavy shadows, making the woods around him even more dark and frightening. Not that Paladin the Brave was ever afraid. Once or twice, though he had heard something move in the underbrush. A wolf, a doe, a bunny, he wasn't sure; it was probably the first of those three, knowing his luck. At each little noise, he buried himself in his cloak, but bless his hatchet and flint, he'd finally started a small fire before said 'wolf' could leap out of the woodwork.

That damned elf had taken so very long that Paladin had finally started a fire despite the damp. But worse than being without solemn companionship, he had been reduced to eating the dry, rye bread he had stashed away for _emergencies_. Though first he had to stab a hole in each piece, then placed it on a stick, and finally, hold it over the fire, waiting for the heat to soften bread each brick of bread. Or so he hoped. He'd _toasted_ a few pieces, making them even _harder_ to eat. When all was said and done, it was a downright hallowing process, and all for a bit of bread that tasted like dust, too!

 _Gods curse that grumpy, old elf_ , _says it's going to be an hour, and he takes a dozen! He's probably so ancient he doesn't have a proper concept of time anymore. Too many thousands of years, et cetera, he probably sees an hour as a minute,_ Paladin thought, bitterly; his stomach growling _, I know, I want to eat too, and sleep._

He rubbed his eyes, then released a yawn. _Damn elves._

"Do you think it wise to curse your companions when they have brought you dinner?" Paladin jumped at the elf's words, nearly singeing his toes in the flames. Still, Paladin fell on his back, staring up into the face of that very grumpy Legolas, mentally cursing himself for saying all _that_ shit aloud. Hopefully, he hadn't said the part about 'old elf' and 'thousands of years' aloud.

Shot himself in the foot, he would not let the elf win. If he had said it and the elf acknowledge it, he would just deny it again.

He would win. He was not being petty. He stuck his tongue out subconsciously.

The elf sighed, then took a seat on a stomp on the opposite side of the fire. He leaned his white bow against its side. "Paladin, could you hand me my pack?"

"Please?" Paladin smile, furling his brow.

His scowl, however, was frightening enough that Paladin did as asked. Then he sat mutely on the other side of the fire. The elf took a short knife from the bag and started to skin the creature he had caught; skinning the…bunny's fur. Paladin felt a bit of vile raise in his throat and quickly turned away, deciding that the yellow and orange flames were much more interesting than the elf's vile task.

"Didn't you say that your family healed animals?" Legolas asked. "Paladin?"

"Cleaning a bunny's quite different than sewing up a gash or checking a horse for colic," he said, flinching, "or even sitting a broken leg! And…and…it's a _bunny_. Couldn't you have caught something less cute?"

"A hobbit complaining about food?"

"Aren't elves supposed to be more humane?" He tossed both his hands into the air. "If it was a doe, or buck, I wouldn't feel so bad, but…but…it's a bunny."

The only response he got was an 'hmmm'. This conversation was bizarre. Perhaps he was just sleep deprived because the grumpy elf had taken so long to return from his little hunting trip in the woods.

"May I ask…something?" he began, the elf glanced up from his work and nodded for him to continue, "What took so long?"

"Just because your stomach growls, does not mean much time has passed," the elf replied, frowning, Paladin frowned back. Cleaning the knife with a rag from his pack, he considered the half-hobbit with a scrutinizing gaze, making Paladin flinch and shiver in discomfort. He placed the carcass over the fire, and waiting for it to cook before he added: "I was…lost in thought."

"In which direction?"

The elf rolled his eyes then handed him a leg of roasted bunny meat. It made his stomach turn.

He grimaced, at least it was better than dried rye bread. It wasn't speckled with dark, green mold, either.

"Eat quickly," Legolas said, then took a bite. How was he not bothered by this?

Paladin took a bite of the poor bunny, swallowing it and most of his disgust. Chewing it, he found it tough and stringy, just as he thought it would be. Its meat could use some salt and pepper, and perhaps a bit of rosemary as well. Paladin reached for his pack, but found he had left his salt and spices at home.

 _What a shame_ , he thought, troubled.

"Need I provide a definition of haste for you?" asked the elf, he was even more _pleasant_ than usual tonight. _Probably doesn't help that I insulted him, though._

Paladin peered at him over the tall flames, the elf was already _done_ , bones rested on his lap. His eyebrows nearly leaped up to his thick, curly bangs; Legolas had eaten more than his fair share, devouring most of the hare himself. Weren't elves supposed to be dainty about their food? Then again, it was the first time he had seen Legolas actually eat _anything_ since he had met him.

"Yes, m'lord," he said as he chewed, "please do!"

That made the elf _glare_ at him for some reason. He didn't think it was that bad of a jab, but that ice-cold gaze made him panic. Paladin backed away from the flames, ramming into his pack. His jars and things inside the bag jingled in the gloom.

"And sleep, hobbit," the elf added, his voice hushed as he spoke. It was the closest to an apology he expected from the elf. Then, Legolas climbed to his feet and grabbed his white bow from where it leaned the old stump. "I'll be on watch."

Legolas headed out into the night, perhaps climbing one of the nearby trees to get a better view of their surroundings. With that, Paladin sighed and stirred the fire with his stick. With silence descending on the campsite once more, Paladin wished, for the umpteenth time that Legolas made for better company, even the farmers and shepherds at _The Red Peony_ and Ms. Rosy were better companions than him.

The truth was this grand adventure was already making him feel dreadfully alone. He missed them. Legolas was right, he wasn't fit for this kind of thing. He didn't know why Mithrandir wanted him to be here, or what use he really was out in these wild places. With a frustrated sigh, Paladin took out his bedroll from his bag, slide into it and used part of his cloak as a makeshift pillow.

 _Perhaps_ , he thought as he drifted off to sleep at last, _adventures aren't as great as I thought they'd be…_

000

As night wore on, Legolas sat, nestled high in a tree's thick branches, his cloak wrapped tightly around him. He was only half-aware of the world as he walked the path of elven dreams.

 _Legolas Greenleaf,_ he heard Lady Galadriel say as he slept, recalling the words she had spoken to him the day that Mithrandir and he had decided to depart. He hadn't even known she had returned to Avallonë _,_ but one of her maidservants had fetched him that morning, informing him that Galadriel wished to speak to him.

 _A request from Lady Galadriel, of course, was always a demand. One did not simply ignore the Lady, at least if they did not wish to take an unexpected trip to the Halls of Mandos._

 _The maiden had smiled, taken his arm, and dragged him on paths he rarely chose to tread to that dreadful place where the four his mortals had been buried centuries ago. It was the real reason that he rarely came to Avallonë. At last, they reached a small mound covered in elanor and alfirin, overlooking the sea. Four small graves stood on that hill, each marked with a name of the mortals whom had died in the Undying Lands. Here Galadriel stood, back towards him, her eyes ever on the sea._

 _Bringing him here was a most pointed gesture. She said a thousand words without speaking one._

" _Do you know why I have asked to speak with you?" she said, her voice cold and stiff as the breeze which blew off the ocean that morning. He gathered his cloak around him as though to fend off the chill, despite that elves were barely affected by such dismal weather._

" _No," he answered. It was a lie. She had doubtlessly come to warn him. Others had done the same thing. Those of the Noldor who had forsaken these shores long ago did not look on his departure with favor. Some feared he was forsaking these lands, despite that Mithrandir had requested his presence. He sometimes wondered what Samwise would say if he knew elves could be irrational. "I do not know."_

 _She turned her head sideways, finally looking back at him, her grey-blue gaze blustery as a tempest. Anger. Grief. Sadness. "Once, I foresaw that you, little Greenleaf, would not linger in those lands…why is it now that you seek to return there?"_

" _As I recall, it was that my 'heart shall then rest in the forest no more'," he had answered, voice falling into a deadpan, "Middle Earth is not the only land with forests, remember? Perhaps you were simply wrong, my lady."_

 _A part him could not believe he had dare to use sarcasm with Galadriel. Worse, he had dared to suggest that she might be wrong about_ anything _. Thranduil would have been proud of his actions, but that knowledge wasn't exactly the most comforting thing. His father loathed Galadriel, but Legolas wasn't the king of Greenwood, he did not have to hold to their ancient grudges. He missed his ada, but that did not mean he had to be like him._

 _To his relief, she cocked an eyebrow in amusement._

" _Would you suggest, then," she asked, her dark tone tainting the bright dawn, "that you cannot find peace on either shore?"_

 _Did he have peace here? He wasn't sure. It wasn't supposed to be possible, but..._

" _It is not that I dislike it here…" he said, glancing aside, "but it…"_

" _For you the peace these lands should have offered was tainted by their mortality." She had approached their graves, she passed those which belonged to the hobbits, coming to a stop by Gimli's headstone. "His death especially."_

 _They meant each other's eyes, then. She understood, at least, in part. Of all the elves, she had been nearly as close to Gimli as he had. It was a strange relationship, not romantic, nor parental, but some kind of kinship that neither could explain._

" _I will not advise you to stay, little Greenleaf, others were fools if they thought they could change the mind of one of the House of the Beech Tree,_ _"_ _Galadriel said. She reached behind her neck, undoing the clip of a necklace that hung there. On its golden chain, hung a locket made of interwoven gold and silver; the graven image of a mallorn on its front. "When Gimli fell, he returned to me the three hairs which I had given to him."_

 _Legolas nodded. He was there, he remembered. Though, this was not the same locket which Gimli had kept them in. He had a feeling she would not depart with that memento of their old friend._

" _I had Celebrimbor forge a new locket"(2), she said, "long ere this day arrived, I foresaw your leavetaking."_

 _Those words sent a chill up his spine. Astoril had been right._

" _And so I give this to you, in your long sojourn_ _. I_ _t shall give you strength to withstand and power to endure the tasks which the Valar have assigned to you."_

 _He took it, placing it in the pocket of his cloak. "Do you know what those might be?"_

 _Her face darkened. "Some," she answered, cryptic as ever, "yet, the future is oft a terrible thing to foresee. It will not be easy, Legolas Greenleaf, but do not forget the value which your mortal companions can provide..."_

It was often wise to heed the Lady's advice, though he wished that did not include Paladin.

He stashed that locket, hiding it under his shirt. Dawn had come, dreams and disquieting memories could wait for another night.

Elves were indeed ageless, but their muscles still cramped up when they sat in one position for too long.

After stretching his limbs, Legolas stood on his branch high above the campsite by the pond. Today, the sun had yet to show her face. Instead, dawn was melancholy, a cool drizzle marking the grey morn. Nothing had come in the night, but he hadn't expected them to.

The truth was, he had fled up here to get away from that silly hobbit. Birds and trees made for better company.

"Legolas?" said hobbit shouted, looking up from the base of the tree. For a hobbit who could barely pull his own weight, he had a remarkably tenacity for exasperation. Really, he rivaled Peregrin's massive talent for it when that hobbit had been young. "Did you fall asleep on watch?"

Typical Paladin. He doubted he could explain that it didn't _matter_ , elves rarely slept like mortals except if they were gravely injured or fading. He was doing neither. He could keep watch and get plenty of rest at the same time, but the hobbit would probably call that illogical, even if he was beginning to see reason.

 _Doubtful,_ he thought, _those were flukes. He'll see reason when sheep grow wings._

"No," he answered.

"Ah, well, I found some berries," Paladin lifted his head again as he shouted up into the tree, "and fruit. Do elves like toad legs?"

Legolas inwardly groaned. Maybe he should have faked sleeping, however, then he wouldn't have to think about eating toads again. Elrohir and Elladan had done that to him a few weeks before he had left Middle Earth the first time to 'cheer him up'. If the twin sons of Elrond were still around… "I will be down in a moment."

"Don't break anything! We won't get to speak with the shepherds that way!"

He scurried down to the lower branches, then leaped out of the tree. The hobbit hobbled backward, strawberries, cherries, and pieces of rhubarb (of all things) springing from his arms as he did so. He'd actually managed to collect quite a plentiful harvest.

"Speaking of which," Legolas began, picking up a small, wild berry that had fallen from the hobbit's arms. He dusted it off against the inside of his cloak. "We need a plan."

"Wonderful!" the hobbit said with too much cheer. He was _not_ grumpy, but Paladin's enthusiasm did not exactly match his current mood, either. "Wait, didn't you have a plan?"

"I'm sure Mithrandir wishes I could make them pop out of the ground as easily as gold," he said, still beguiled by the wizard's decision making. They started to head back towards the campsite. "Perhaps…"

"You could be the rich bastard," said the hobbit, smiling at his own joke. He seemed to recall Paladin's proprietress using that label for him. Legolas still didn't like it anymore now than he had when Rosy had called him that in her bakery.

"And I, your spokesperson, will talk to them. Some of them know me." _Which might not be a good thing, Master Took_ , Legolas thought as the hobbit prattled on like a little chick. "We simply get the shepherd's to 'sell' us the sheep that once to belong to Master Dorr."

"They may be owned by another swindler. What? Do you expect that he sold them back to the small landowners?"

"There must still be some we can buy, I bet."

He sighed. The hobbit did, admittedly, know more about this business than he did himself. Mithrandir and he had sensed that there was something darker than wolves behind the disappearances. Whatever it was, however, neither had fathomed.

"First we must demand to _look_ at the sheep that have been killed. Or you must, because it is you who has heard of these rumors," Legolas said.

The hobbit hummed in agreement, quickly stuffing berries into his mouth.

"Not I, the foolish rich buyer," Legolas said, frowning as the hobbit's mouth overflowed with berry juice. "Paladin…"

"Oh…of…course…," he said, speaking with his mouth full, "oh, c'mon, don't give me that look, 'our not my pa."

And thank the Valar that was true.

"Before we are willing to buy them," he said, "we will have them sheer those dead sheep."

"So I can check their death wounds?" he asked, despite his earlier words, he had stopped talking with his mouth full of fruit. Sheering sheep did not seem to bother him nearly as much as skinning hares did, probably because it was less gruesome. Still checking wounds didn't bother him either. "Then we can figure out what kind of wolves or men have been killing the sheep?"

The elf nodded, doubtful that it was either man or wolf, but he kept his suspicions of the possible culprit to himself. There was no need to frighten the hobbit until he was certain. "I would like to either bring a carcass back to Ithil Eden or, if you could…"

"I can make a quick sketch! My father made me draw herbs and things until I had been able to differentiate between each bloody plant. Made my fingers bleed," Paladin said, bouncing on his feet. "It all sounds simple enough to me."

"We shall see."

Their task, Legolas was certain, would not be as easy as the cheerful hobbit believed.

000

(1) That is, the Milky Way.

(2) Sometimes, elves come back from Mandos after a while (actually, all elves do except if you happen to be Feanor and most of his sons [one of which is perhaps not dead, depending on which version of that story you prefer]). It's been long enough in this story's timeline, I think, for Celebrimbor to have been reborn, and he has a thing for forging strange magical jewelry, some of which do cooler things than others. It really doesn't do _much_ , but what it does is essential, though Galadriel is being rather vague (and lampshading it, because she can). Sigh, old Noldor do love being cryptic.


End file.
